


Greenhouses and Engine Oil

by Aurelie (NowImJustSomebodyThat)



Category: Star Trek (Alternate Original Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Parents, Canon Bullying, Coming of Age, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Handwavy Science, Kid Fic, Platonic Relationships, Sci-Fi Racism, Tags and Characters to be added, Various Vulcan OC's, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan Mind Melds, good parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NowImJustSomebodyThat/pseuds/Aurelie
Summary: T'Pring has been bound by custom since her birth. She must rise past her father's bloodline's violent past, must step beyond her mother's bloodline's reputation for quick wit and scathing remarks, must make a place for herself amongst her ancestors that is with honour, grace and dignity.But what is honour, grace, and dignity, when paired with a friend?~Or, the AU that spawned from one terribly brilliant thought: What if they were friends?
Relationships: Amanda Grayson/Sarek, Spock & T'Pring (Star Trek)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am attempting to re-write the entire AOS. No, I won't accept any attempts to dissuade me from this. Yes, I'm a fool.
> 
> All Vulcan is taken from the VLD, so don't shoot the scholar lmao.
> 
> I have a thesis to write, so hopefully with some validation things'll be faster than they used to be.

T’Pring is seven (seven years, five months, two weeks, four days, twelve hours and fourteen, fifteen, sixteen seconds) when her parents broach the topic of her inevitable bonding. Names are passed around during their conversation - Stonn, Suhur, Syrran, Varek - and T’Pring whispers them, seeing how the names settle on her tongue, how they curl around her mouth and mind as she thinks.

And then, like shards of glass in sunlight, their decision, after months of discussion, T’Pring now closer to eight.

Spock, son of Sarek, the Ambassador. Spock. _Spock_. The name sits oddly on her tongue, but settles in her mind well enough.

Spock. From ‘spo’k’hat’n’dlawa’.

“A Human mother” T’Pring’s mother states with obvious disdain, “but an otherwise noble family.” T’Pring has not met a human before. She would wonder what it would feel like, but wonder is meant for smaller children than she.

 _Half of each other’s heart and soul_ , is the translation. A fitting name for a child of two worlds. 

“The Ambassador wishes to meet with you, T’Pring. You must act admirably, your behaviour will reflect on your house.” Her father says, face unmoving. “He will be here in one week for a brief discussion.” Her parents stand and depart for their offices, and T’Pring reaches for the PADD left behind. Her fingers move deftly over the device, searching for the information she seeks.

Ambassador Sarek, wedded to Dr Amanda Grayson, PhD.

How intriguing.

~~

The Ambassador falls ill with a minor illness picked up from a recent trip. It is nothing worth worrying about, but he is on bed rest for a week, and it seems that both he and his wife are desperate to marry off their son, because it is Dr Grayson who arrives at their door on the afternoon of the discussion, instead of postponing.

T’Pring watches her mother and father greet the human woman, her deep brown hair caught under a dark blue headscarf, which she unwraps and tucks in a pocket in her coat. She looks at them with the grace and dignity becoming of an Ambassador’s wife, human eyes not human at all. She shields very well, no whispers of emotion fluttering through the home, and they depart for T'Pring's father’s study.

There is quiet as they talk, only the faintest of conversation floating up the staircase where T’Pring is not-hiding, hands curling around the ornate bannister as she peers through them, at the dark door to her father’s study. It remains closed for quite some time, almost too long, but eventually the door opens. She steps quietly back up the stairs, attempting to appear as if she was not hyper focused on the door hiding them.

“T’Pring.” Her mother calls, and she steps into view, not a hair out of place. The quiet thrum of _good enough_ echoes through the bond she has with her parents, and she catches the reflexive distaste. One day, she will be good enough. “Come here.” T’Pring steps down the stairs, deep blue dress brushing her ankles as she reaches the floor, walking towards them with as much control as she can muster.

From a distance, Amanda Grayson appeared the pinnacle of Vulcan mastery, face stoic and eyes betraying no emotion. But now, with T’Pring in front of her, the deep brown eyes soften ever so slightly, and she crouches with all the practise of a mother who spent afternoons bearing a son on her hip, feet gracefully tucking themselves away as she sits on her heels. She offers the ta’al, and T’Pring does so in return. Amanda Grayson - Dr Grayson - has beauty spots on one earlobe, three specks which add to the slightly uneven eyebrows, the crook of her nose and the deeper wrinkles on the right side of her mouth. She is not even, unlike her parents, and it makes T’Pring all the more interested. There is no radiating emotion, not even a sense of blankness. She shields well.

“I am Amanda Grayson, wife of Sarek.” She introduces herself in Vulcan, as if Standard is not the correct speech to be using in such a place. Both her palms are resting on her knees, and more of those beauty spots exist in whorls and constellations, along with a small scar along one knuckle. 

“I am T’Pring, daughter of Senek. Am I to be betrothed to the one who is your son?”

“Yes. He is Spock, son of Sarek, second of his house.” There is a pause. “It is tradition for the mind of a parent to be introduced, to determine any underlying compatibility issues. As my husband is not here, I stand in his place. I offer you, T’Pring, daughter of Senek, a glimpse at my own mind, so that at the time of bonding you will be acquainted with the mind of my son.” She turns over one hand, palm now facing upwards, and reaches out just a little bit, the hand now in the air between them.

T’Pring wants to look at her parents for approval, but the warmth in Dr Grayson’s eyes spurs her on instead, and she extends her own small hand and presses her fingertips into the palm of Dr Grayson’s hand.

There is a moment when the only thing T’Pring feels is the wall Dr Grayson has meticulously crafted, solid stone and impenetrable, extending far beyond T’Pring’s range of sight and into blackness at every end. And then there is a door, slowly swinging open, the sound of rustling leaves behind it. T’Pring, within the vastness of Dr Grayson’s mind, steps forward, hand curled around the door. 

She opens it.

The first thing she realises is that the place she stands in is terrifyingly, overwhelmingly _green_. There are rows and rows of green hedges, weaving and twisting into a maze that encircles two trees at the centre, one the bright red trees of Vulcan, the other a twisted, gnarled tree that was beginning to take its shape. She wishes to run through it, through the maze, chasing the invisible path through to the centre, to bask in the shade of the trees within the centre, to climb the smaller one- what _is_ the smaller one?

 _We call it oak_. Amanda’s voice echoes from the stones T’Pring stands on. T'Pring starts, embarrassed. Amanda's enjoyment rumbles the stones beneath her feet. _The tree you recognise is the mark of my bondmate. The smaller one is the mark of my son._

 _Is your son like you?_ T’Pring asks within the safety of Amanda’s mind, as her parents are not here to criticise.

_In some facets, yes. He is no ordinary Vulcan._

T’Pring bows and begins the walk back, a flash of sadness as she closes the door to the surface impression Dr Grayson gave her. She blinks, and her vision returns to that of the room she, her parents and Dr Grayson are in. Dr Grayson’s palm pulls away, and T’Pring bites back the request to step back into her mind. It is not her place. Dr Grayson rises and parts with the traditional thanks, disappearing back outside into the red dust, scarf pulled over her mismatched ears and deep brown hair.

“Come, T’Pring, we must partake in the evening meal.” Her mother says, walking into the kitchen to prepare the meal.

 _He is no ordinary Vulcan_ , she had said, within the evergreen walls of her own mind.

T’Pring hopes that he is not.

~~

If T’Pring were younger, she would be terrified of T’Pau, head of her house, a fearsome monument to Vulcan control and discipline. But she is not younger, so she merely takes in the sight of the elder, stoic and dressed in deep red robes that match her own. Her parents are a few steps behind her, stoic as well. In front of her, however, is a boy.

S’chn T’gai Spock is mostly in red robes, his right arm in a sling. There is a small cut in his eyebrow, the faintest of green as if it was freshly cleaned. Dr Grayson and the Ambassador are a few steps behind him, the Ambassador stoic and Dr Grayson almost visibly nervous.

T’Pau stands between them, hands reaching for the places on their heads. T’Pau’s hands are warm, but her mental touch is jarring, an icy coolness that wraps around her brain and pulls, taking a part of herself and pulling and pulling and pulling and T’Pring wants to scream because why would people do it if it hurts this much-

And then relief.

T’Pau’s mind is gone, and T’Pring opens her eyes - when did they close - to see that T’Pau has pressed T’Pring’s fingertips against Spock’s palm, Spock’s own fingertips against her palm. The ice touch of T’Pau begins to fade, warmed by something.

No, someone.

 _Hello?_ There is quiet. The mental landscape is black, a void as the two of them struggle to reconcile the new presence in their heads.

 _...Hello._ The voice is warm, and uncertain. T’Pring begins to see the beginnings of a wall, not unlike Dr Grayson’s. She begins to walk towards it.

_I am T’Pring._

_I am Spock._ The wall is monumental, white, uneven sandstone. T’Pring reaches out to touch it, and the spot where she touches shimmers, a door sliding into place. As she reaches for the doorknob, she feels someone doing the same in her own mind.

 _On three?_ She suggests, flashing the memory of her human studies, young adults counting to three before stepping into the unknown or foolish.

_Is this unknown, T’Pring, or foolish?_

_Unknown._ She opens the door, and Spock does the same.

She does not know what she was expecting, but it was not _this_. Not the heat, not the stifling humidity that is making water pool on her top lip and gather in the folds of her robes, and not the blinding light, as if she stands within the centre of a crystal, shards of pure light catching her from every direction. She closes her eyes hard, counting down the seconds, then reopens them.

She stands in a small alcove, sunlight around her, fragmented on the prisms that make up the wall of the monumental greenhouse, every colour of the spectrum scattered along a dark stone floor, damp with water. The plants within are abundant and green, vibrant and various in origin. There are Vulcan plants, Terran plants, specimens T’Pring has only seen in textbooks and studies, all in individual pots, some on the dark stone ground, some on tables, some suspended from the ceiling and trailing down her shoulder. She walks, and walks, and walks. 

Some of the pots are labelled - ‘Sa-kuk Orion Grayson’ is a star-like succulent, ‘Toz’ot Winnie Anderson’ is a slightly wilted blue orchid, though no less resplendent. Perhaps Toz’ot Winnie has not been in some time. There is an empty pot simply labelled ‘I’Chaya’, with a wilted sprout. They are not bonds, though not for lack of trying - T’Pring can tell that these connections are with extended family and friends, bonds which come with ease to those with telepathic abilities, but are a struggle to maintain for those who are not. 

She crosses a threshold, and sees multiple doorways, crystalline and impossible to see through. There’s eight, one for each year of Spock’s life, and each door is marked as separate to the others by the colour of the light it gives off. His newborn year is a vivid green, moving into the deep blues of eight, with a flash of violent red at four. She could, easily, step through one of those doors and race through every memory Spock has, know him from the inside out and leave nothing to chance. But she would not, could not, let alone should not. His mind is a greenhouse, and the glass, though beautiful, is fragile, not taking into account the breaking of rules that such disregard for the mind of her bondmate would involve. She simply stares at the door of year two, the emerald green and its' whispers of discovery, and keeps walking.

She crosses a threshold, and does not have the time to hold back her gasp. This room of the greenhouse extends beyond her vision, all the panes of glass filled with bright light, catching on the shadows of the interwoven trees in the centre of the room. There are three in the centre, growing from three separate places but almost impossible to separate once the canopies begin, each bough of each tree ducking between the others, leaves intermingling with leaves as the trees climb higher and higher and higher.

T’Pring wishes, illogically, that she had a seed to plant.

Her fingers suddenly close around the one that forms in her palm. It’s large, about the size of a Terran lychee, smooth and dark brown. The trees in the centre shift a little, leaving enough space for T’Pring to kneel down and plant herself within the greenhouse. The little seed is swiftly covered by the soft, wet earth, and T’Pring has just enough time to stand up and step back before the little mound of dirt shakes and splits open, the seed she just planted now a healthy, if small, sprout, angling just a little to the left as if to tuck itself between two of the boughs of the other trees. 

_Are you finished?_ T’Pring loudly thinks.

Something odd and unusual settles at the back of T’Pring’s skull, a soft pulsing that matches the heartbeat of someone who is not her.

 _I am now_.

T’Pring leaves the room of trees, walking through the corridor of memories, through the bigger greenhouse of influence and inspiration and, looking back one more time at the overabundance of green, steps outside and closes the door with a soft click.

She blinks, eyes adjusting now to the bright red sands. It is jarring, going from the refracted light on wet stone to the harsh red sands of her home, but she will endure, as always.

Spock, in front of her, blinks rapidly, pulling his hand away. Her internal clock informs her that it has been only a second, even though T’Pring would swear on her ancestors that it had been hours. “Your mind is…” there is a pause, and Spock must forget that at this proximity she can hear him, because thousands of human adjectives flitter through his head before he settles on “Fascinating.”

“As is yours, Spock, son of Sarek.” She replies, hoping that he can feel just how in awe of his greenhouse she is. 

“It is done.” T’Pau says, turning away. “Parting, yet never parted. Never and always touching and touched.”

T’Pring’s mother moves to T’Pring’s shoulder, bearing down hard in an attempt to get T’Pring to turn away. She does so, albeit unwillingly, so caught up in the greenhouse, the trees, and the many many doors. As they depart, a single thought that is not hers begins to bloom at the base of her skull.

It is anticipation.

T’Pring finds that she mirrors the sentiment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Pring makes a decision, and then another one, and then another one.
> 
> Some of these decisions may not have been the best.

The soft beat at the base of her skull becomes a pounding rhythm a month later while taking part in the midday meal between educational sessions, the sheer force of it turning her off her food. She leaves her meal - soup, warm bread and fresh fruit - to be continued, and makes her way back into the rooms that she had just departed. The room is mostly empty, the learning spheres black and silent, devoid of the children that must inhabit them, but yet there is a gathering of larger Vulcans, roughly twelve years old, in a semicircle against one of the learning spheres.

There’s a flash of _painfearangerfearhelp_ at the back of T’Pring’s mind, as strong as they day they were bonded, even though they have not spoken more than brief passing greetings since.

They have hurt Spock. He is barely eight, and she is so close now that she can hear the hitching of his breath, the soft sound of it catching on Vulcan restraint, drowned out by the murmurings of those around him. T’Pring makes her way through the crowd, certainly not pushing her way through like an animal, and begins to help Spock up. There is a deep green cut below his eye, his human eyes, usually so warm and open but now they fill with something T’Pring does not like the look of. He holds strongly to her forearms, fingers trembling, mind so loud that the _thankyouwhyareyouhererunhurtpainyoullgethurt_ ricochet around her own mind. She projects calm, and the thoughts quieten from a thunderstorm to a level of noise akin to an unattended teapot.

“Look how human his eyes are.” One of the bullies - Kovar, her mind supplies, Kovar as in the brother of Stonn, her almost-bondmate - says, haughtiness and superiority perfectly comprehensible even when confined within a monotone. The others nod in agreement, looking the part of every other Vulcan who has turned their nose at Spock’s genius and brilliance and individuality at the sight of his eyes.

But she is T’Pring, the daughter of two unfortunate bloodlines, of violent men and haughty women, and she will do them both proud today.

“Come, Spock. We must inform the Academy immediately of your discovery.” She says loudly, enough to draw the attention of a few other students who are doing their best impression of not loitering. Everyone starts at her statement, including Spock, eyes going that little bit wider.

One of the bullies - Varek, an almost-bondmate, and how telling of his disposition it is that he has reached his decade without a suitable match - takes the bait. “Which discovery do you speak of?”

“The discovery that he has just made about this new strain of human herpes. I was not aware such a bacteria made itself known as a multicellular being, let alone one capable of speech.” She looks pointedly at the bullies, and Varek takes the bait. He steps up, right hand curling to form a fist, and T’Pring sidesteps expertly, pulling Spock to the side as they both watch Varek tumble down into the study space below. The loud, satisfying _crack_ that echoes from the pit confirms a prior theory of hers that a fall from this height, at the wrong angle, would cause a broken bone.

Elders, possibly summoned by a student who wished to remain in favour with the elders while doing nothing, begin to pour in. T’Pring tightens her grip on Spock’s robes and pulls him out the door. She leads him through the kitchens, collecting her incomplete meal and a few more pieces of fruit, and she takes him to sit outside in the garden, cross-legged and facing each other, the plate between them.

“Have you eaten?” She asks, though she already knows the answer. He shakes his head.

“They threw my lunch into the gardens. I do not believe it was in an attempt to improve the landscaping.” Spock is sharp when he is angry, as he is now, and T’Pring provides him an outlet by passing him the now hardened bread, the slow sapping of warmth turning it from a meal into a rock. He breaks it in half, and they share the lukewarm soup by dipping the bread into it, eating quietly.

The urge to protect him eventually overwhelms T'Pring’s expectation of silence, and she places down her piece of bread as she speaks. “You should not respond to their taunts.”

Spock bites aggressively into his bread. “They would continue to do so anyway. Acting as if such words are acceptable is illogical.”

“Their actions are spurred by reaction.” She pauses. “There is nothing that they could say that would be worth t-”

“They insulted my mother.” He confesses.

Ah.

Dr Grayson, the mind within the human within the confines of Vulcan high society, the woman who is known within circles for quiet resilience and the occasional stalwart no. T’Pring remembers the deep green hedge maze, the winding paths, the two distinct trees weaving in and out of the centre, the oak of Spock’s bond with her mirrored in his own mind in the greenhouse.

T’Pring’s parents are a pinnacle of Vulcan control - their minds are libraries, each individual component of themselves filed away on the shelves that sit within the single room their mind presents as. There are no sprawling landscapes, no shadowed corners. Each year of their lives is thoroughly indexed, slotted into place alongside education and bonds and preferences, never favourites.

She, only briefly, wonders what her own mind is like.

“It is the inside of a ship.” Spock answers, and T’Pring suddenly remembers that, at such proximity, he can hear her. “Big and expanding, everything with its own place, yet almost incomprehensible in its complexity. It is-” fascinating, logical, some other acceptable description for the inner workings of a ship- “beautiful.”

She does not respond, instead taking another bite from her bread. They sit in companionable silence, Spock’s fear and anger vanquished by thanks and relief. Nobody comes to fetch them, no elders step into the garden, no aides call their names.

T’Pring has finished her meal for four minutes when she speaks. “Will you inform your parents of the events of today?”

“It has happened before. If I inform them of the repeated events, I am negatively impacting the emotional wellbeing of my mother. If she is impacted, then my father is impacted, and his emotional control, though Vulcan, is incomplete.” He responds with ease, as if he is listing the energy output of dilithium and not the secrets of his house.

“If it happens again, you must come collect me.” She responds, tone leaving no room for argument. “You are to be my bondmate. I must protect you.”

“I do not need protection.”

“Do not act as if your silence is a sign of strength. You do not stand alone, pi’kastik-kel.” The pet-name slips out before she can stop it, and they both stiffen. He stares at her, eyes bright and wide with something akin to fear but not quite like it. It is shock, certainly, but tinged with something T’Pring cannot identify. 

“What did you call me?” His tone makes it clear that it is not a question, yet she answers.

“Pi’kastik-kel. Do not make me repeat it a third time.” She says.

A bell tolls to resume their lessons, and they both stand, moving to put all the bowls and cutlery on the tray. Spock takes the tray, even though T’Pring reaches for it. “You brought it out. I will bring it in.” He says. “It is only fair.”

Fair. As if it is fair that he is to be bullied for his humanity, as if it is fair that he must return home, cut beneath his eye, and pretend that he simply fell during the day, and was not pushed. Spock returns the tray, bowing in thanks to the attendant, and returns to her side. They walk together into the educational space. The others stare and whisper at them, and T’Pring makes an obvious movement to see if there is any blood in the education sphere where the bully fell. There is not. 

T’Pring should not be disappointed, but she is.

The sharp footsteps of adults echo behind them, and T’Pring turns to see two high educators walking towards them. “I will see you at the end of day.” She says to Spock, who nods, face unemotional but mind projecting _worryfearpainbesafedonotbeharmedbecauseofmebesafebesafebesafe_. 

“T’Pring. We must have a discussion.” They say, and she nods, following them out.

She is reprimanded, and though she defends herself by speaking the truth, that she did not lay a hand on the one who acted out of anger, they ignore her. She has been less than exemplary, they say, because she incited violence instead of relying on the logic that is the pillar of their society.

T’Pring not-so-nicely thinks that logic is stupid. 

She does not return to the education space, instead she is collected by her mother, who radiates unbridled fury upon receiving the news as to why she is finishing early. As T’Pring is led by her mother to the gates, she realises that the one who fell, the one who tried to _punch her_ , is still there, reciting equations.

He is _still there_ , and she is _here_ , being unceremoniously forced into a car and taken away, as if she is the violent one, and not the bullies that will have Spock at their mercy come the end of day. T’Pring is glad that her mother is silent, because she spends the trip fuming, her own anger and fury rolling off her in waves, settling around her shoulders like a ceremony cloak. How dare they attempt to make her believe that Spock is the inferior individual here? He is eight, and achieving marks that bring pride to his house. He is the pinnacle of Vulcan’s pride in diversity, and yet, they treat him as if he were a zoo exhibition. The familiar roads of Shi’Kahr flashed by the window, and T’Pring only knew that they were approaching her home when flashes of irrigated land appeared between the tall buildings, strips of green between the red stone and black metal. They arrive at the family home, and T’Pring half pays attention to her parents' firm words, the biting remarks against Spock, son of Sarek, her pi’kastik-kel. They say she is a subpar Vulcan for acting out of rebellion, for risking her position in her class for the sake of a thrill. But he is not a thrill, he is her bondmate, the one who will quench the fires when the blood fever comes. She must defend him. She will not let him hear these insults. She is sent to her room to study, called only for the pointed silence of the evening meal, and then sent up again to her room. Her father must have removed all personal and non-educational material from her room prior to their arrival - her books, puzzles and personal comm are not in her room, only the textbooks and educational materials on her shelf.

But there is one thing they neglected to take. 

She sits and studies, catching up on the afternoon’s missed work, memorising the equations and configurations needed to inform the high educators that she can be a pinnacle of Vulcan technological mastery and prone to her ‘illogical outbursts’, as they had put it. Caring for others is not illogical, and defending them does not constitute an outburst.

It is late in the evening when she feels her parents’ minds settle in meditation, drawing in on themselves, and that is when she takes her chance. She feels out for the bond between herself and Spock, strong and solid. She wonders what it looks like. She is a plant within Spock’s own mind, but what is he within hers? A gear? A piece of machinery? One of the structural pylons that allows for her to grow?

The bond thrums. He is awake, not meditating, not asleep. He is thinking about the alphabetical differences between Vulcan, Standard and Romulan, which T’Pring knows was not the topic of today's learning. Perhaps his mother asked him to complete such studies. Perhaps he will share his findings. She tries to reach out to him, to see if he is okay, but he is shielding himself from her, and she cannot ascertain if he is well. 

She is a child, and should not catch a car on her own. Her legs are short, she cannot walk the distance. She will simply have to utilise an unusual method to make sure he is well.

T’Pring climbs onto her desk, pushing at the window. The pane slowly slides to the side, leaving enough of a gap for T’Pring to squeeze her shoulders - and, theoretically, the rest of her body - through. She looks down at the sleeping mound of fur, and speaks, loudly enough for the sehlat to hear, but softly enough that her parents should not notice. “T’Ara. T’Ara, wake up. You are required.”

The sand-coloured sehlat grumbles awake, sharp breaths coming out with a huff as T’Ara shakes awake. She stretches, front legs locked as her back curls, hind legs slowly extending in a mimicry of the downward dog Terran yoga pose. T’Ara huffs, fur fluttering around her fangs, and yowls out a yawn, blinking up at T’Pring, who is now mostly out her window, legs crooked so that she does not fall.

This is a terrible idea, but she has no other option. “T’Ara, come.” T’Ara stands and moves so that she stands exactly under the window. “Stay.” T’Pring shifts her left leg, letting it slide through the window and slowly coming to rest on T’Ara’s back. 

This is ridiculous.

With some patience, T’Pring finds herself perched on T’Ara’s back, hands knotting in her fur. T’Pring looks up at her bedroom window, then shakes her head. She will ask forgiveness, permission already far out of her reach. She tugs at T’Ara’s fur, and T’Ara easily steps through the gate and into the dark street.

There is nobody on the road, which is a welcome development - T’Pring would not want law enforcement to be called over a small child riding a sehlat. She leads T’Ara down the roads she objectively knows will lead her to Spock’s home, not that she has been there before. She discards the thought that she may be unwelcome, instead steadily focusing on the thrumming at the back of her head. He is likely to be awake for some time, his mind so busy in his unease that the same stomach churning begins to develop in T’Pring, stronger with each step she takes. 

She has been out for some time, her wrist chronometer informing her it has been a thirty six point two five minute journey on sehlat, when the sloping curves of Spock’s home begin to greet her. The tall, thin trees are sporadic enough that T’Ara is able to step between them, T’Pring’s head just fitting under some of the branches. There are no lights, save one in a room on the second floor. T’Pring can make out the sight of Spock at his desk, head down and frantically working. She urges T’Ara forward, and her sehlat steps up to the house, stretching so that T’Pring can scoot her way up to the window. Her hold is precarious, but she has about a minute before it will become a real problem.

She knocks, quietly.

Spock starts, looking at his door. She knocks again, and his head spins around to face her. His jaw drops, a perfect ‘o’ as he takes in the sight of her at his window. 

“Spock.” She says, knowing very well that he cannot hear her, but he can at least see her. He stands and hurries to the window, pushing it open.

“What are you doing here?” He says, voice cracking a little with shock.

“I could not ascertain with our bond if you were alright, and my parents took my personal communicator.” She states.

There’s a pause. “Why are you on a sehlat?”

“I am a child. I do not have the credits for a car, and it is dangerous for me to walk alone in the streets.”

“So you decided to ride a sehlat?” She crooks one eyebrow in response, and though he does not outwardly sigh, their bond radiates with it.

“It was the only viable option.” Another pause. “Can I come in? This position is uncomfortable, I am not as tall as you yet.” He reaches out, hands wrapping around her forearms, and he pulls her in, both of them huffing with the effort. 

Spock leans out the window to look at her sehlat. “What is her name?”

“T’Ara.”

“T’Ara, you may rest there. Please do not disturb my parents.” Spock says, brows furrowing as T’Ara huffs. “She is a stubborn creature.” He says, matter-of-factly, as he closes the window. “As are you.” He continues, spinning to face T’Pring, robes flaring. “You could have gotten hurt.”

“I was unable to determine whether _you_ were also injured without physically being here. Is the concept of an individual who focuses on your wellbeing so alien to you?”

 _Yes._

T’Pring stops, the growing heat of her words immediately quelled by Spock’s subconscious confession. He seems shocked, too, that his inner thoughts had betrayed him so, and he half-turns away from her, walking a few steps away, leaving a physical distance that is easy to surmount. The feeling in her mind, however, as Spock tugs at the bond in an attempt to quiet it, is painful, and she bites back a short gasp.

“Spock-”

“That is enough.” His voice is quiet, barely a whisper. She can see his hands shaking from where she stands, his eyes firmly on the quaking of his fisted hands. She takes a step forward, a second step.

“Spock.” She tries again, and he looks up at her. There is no more Vulcan control. His eyes are bright, his mouth slack. There is a quake in his shoulders and bottom lip, and he flinches, burying his face in his hands as a sound that fits better on a pained animal tears its way out of his chest. 

She runs to him, chest bursting, arms wrapping around his torso in an attempt to comfort. He shakes in her grasp, and for the first time in a long time T’Pring is at a loss. She has never had to comfort a peer before, not like this, and Spock is visibly emotional in ways that Vulcans simply cannot be.

She does not know what to do, there is no instinct for her to follow. She slowly leads him to the bed, so that he may sit, and when he does so she tugs at his sleeves. “Spock.” She says, voice quiet. 

“Why are you still here?” He asks, soft voice softer still through the fabric.

 _Because you are to be my bondmate. Because when the fires of our forefathers rage, I will be the one there to quell them_.

“Because you are my friend.” He looks up at her, green-tinged eyes wide with that statement. They stay like that for a second, two seconds. He buries his face into her shoulder, arms wrapping around her.

“ _You are my friend_.” Spock’s voice catches on half of the syllables, as if he cannot believe what she has clearly spoken aloud.

_Yes, you are._

They sit like that, in silence, for some time. If T’Pring had the energy, she would count the seconds, the individual moments where Spock is curled into her, his bigger frame fitting against her shoulders and side, his hair fluttering against her neck every time he shakily exhales. His fingers curl into her collar, and her own curl against his back, ruining the neat folds of his robes in a poor attempt at comfort. The bond is thrumming, violent and electric, sparking out in flashes of self hatred, soothed by T’Pring’s reflection of Spock’s mind in the meld, and rage, soothed by shifting hands.

T’Pring’s eyes begin to burn, and she forces back a yawn. It is late, too late, and she risks falling asleep on top of T’Ara if she leaves now.

“Then stay.” Spock says, uncurling himself from her. He rubs at his eyes, and the sharp green tinge is ignored for the soft water tracks along his cheeks. He has tear ducts. How remarkable. 

“I should get home.” She says, half-heartedly.

“From what little you said, I doubt your parents truly care.” He replies, snapping his jaw shut the second it comes out. “T’Pring, I did not mean-”

“You are right. Do not apologise for the truth.” It was obvious that she was a means, an item to trade, a product to market to the highest bidder. She had hoped, in childhood illogic, that perhaps she was misreading her parents and their quiet disdain, that they instead really did care for her and her studies, her persona. But she knows, now, that it was true. A heartbreaking truth, but a truth nonetheless. “I will stay.” He pushes at her shoulder, and they lie down together, shoulder to shoulder, not quite meeting each other’s eyes, legs curled and feet tucked under their robes. 

“How long will you stay?” Spock asks, and it takes a second for T’Pring to realise that he does not speak about tonight.

“As long as I want.” She says proudly, and the joy that blooms in his mind overflows into a tingling of her fingers and an ache in her chest. Spock yawns, curling closer to her.

“We should get beneath the blankets.” He says.

“Indeed.”

Between that second and the next, they both fall asleep.

T’Pring dreams, or perhaps Spock dreams, but their proximity means she is caught in it. Or, they are both dreaming the same dream, the pair of them running through a slowly wilting cornfield, the long grains curling in on themselves, casting long shadows as the sun begins to set, rapidly sinking towards the horizon, faster and faster as the shadows stretch further and further and further and then there are _stars_ , hundreds of them, thousands of them, and the cornfield shifts until it is the floor of a ship, T’Pring’s hands now filthy with lubricant, white walls rising around them as the ground-floor-ship begins to quake, Spock vanishing from her vision from behind pylons and she reaches for him from around the corner and -

She is awake, sunlight streaming through the window and hitting her in the face. She squints, lifting her hand to block most of the rays, the back of her hand silhouetted by six bright segments. She blinks, then looks at Spock. He is still asleep, but is beginning to stir, fingers uncurling from the fists they had become. T’Pring glances at the chronometer on her wrist. She has been asleep for six point five seven hours. Her parents must be aware of her departure by now, must have spoken about her disappearance from her home, must have informed the relevant authorities that she is no longer accounted for.

She waits. She waits for something, for the door to open to reveal her angry father, for T’Ara to yowl as authorities approach, but nothing happens. It is still, and quiet, Spock’s quiet breathing the only noise in the room.

He is still asleep, curled against her other arm, hair mussed and face pressed into the mattress. His mind is quiet in the back of hers, a soft thrumming akin to the tapping of fingers against a table. She wishes, illogically, to curl into that tapping and fall back asleep. But it is wasteful to fall asleep when her mind wishes to be awake, so she stretches, hands rising past her head, and as she moves to sit up Spock wakes. He blinks once, twice, then sits up too, his bangs firmly pressed in the upright position.

“You look absurd.” She says, pointing to the newly formed cowlick.

“As do you.” He replies, reaching to press one wayward section of hair back to her head. He smooths it down, sure of himself, then removes his hand. It immediately springs back into place. “We may require assistance.”

“Indeed.” There is more companionable silence, they simply are there, together, existing. T’Pring’s mind wanders to the cornfield in her dream, the wilting, the rush of the stars, the pounding beneath her feet, her losing him. “Spock.”

“Yes?”

“Did you… Did you dream last night?” She asks, and he looks at her.

“Elaborate.”

“While we were asleep, I saw a cornfield that I have never been to before. We were both there, and the corn was wilting, as if it had not been watered in some time.” Spock’s furrowed brow mirrors her own.

“I have never been to such a pla-” He stops, then looks at the door. “My father is coming.”

“I must go.” T’Pring stands, ready to escape out the window.

“It is too late. He is here.”

The door swings open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pi’kastik-kel - little greenhouse, which should REALLY tell you exactly how this fic is going to go
> 
> Big thanks to Zee for being my cheerleader/beta/first officer of this garbage scow that is this entire universe


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Pring has expectations. None are met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the wait really that bad if I accidentally double the wordcount?  
> A H U G E thank you to the amazing and incredible and wonderful notanightlight for the beta-read (i love u and owe you my life)

The door opens, a slow slide along the floor. Though time does not decide to emphasise the moment by slowing, it feels as if it does, as if it draws all power from the singular step into the room, the swell of black and gold, the catching of light on the embroidered hem, the hand pressing around the edge of the door.

Honest to Surak _fear_ sparks in Spock’s mind, and T’Pring moves to stand between Spock and the door, an endeavour she knows is foolish, but what else is she to do? Spock is afraid, and she has self-allocated the role of protector. While she cannot do much, she will do what she can, and hope that it will be enough.

“T’Pring, do no—” Spock starts, then stops. His father, the Ambassador, stands fully revealed in the doorway, hand outstretched as the door softly bounces back. He is in black and gold robes, with long, extravagant sleeves, ancient lines from ancient texts embroidered along the hems. Every hair on his head is placed with purpose, and the only sign that he is surprised by what he sees is the slow rise of a meticulously maintained eyebrow.

“T’Pring. I did not expect you here.” He says. “I am Sarek, son of Skon, father of Spock.”

“I am T’Pring, daughter of Senek, betrothed to Spock.” She replies, standing taller as she mentions her connection to Spock, a source of pride that the Ambassador would clearly see. “You have a warm hearth, Ambassador.” The formal, though out-of-fashion, phrase has Sarek’s other eyebrow tick upwards for a fraction of a second. 

“May its flames soothe more than the cold.” He responds, his voice hinting at a possibility of humour. “I received word from your parents that you were discovered to be missing earlier this morning. When did you come into my home?”

“Seven hours and five minutes ago, Ambassador.” 

His second eyebrow rises to meet the first. “You have been in my home for over seven hours?”

“Yes, Ambassador.” He frowns, the furrow on his brow matching the one Spock wore the day before. There’s a long silence, and the Ambassador’s head tilts slightly as he thinks.

“And yet, they only informed me of your disappearance a few moments ago.” He muses.

“I hypothesise that they are still disappointed in me, Ambassador.” His head tilt and brow furrow become more prominent.

“Elaborate.”

“I exhibited behaviour that makes me an acceptable bondmate, but a sub-par Vulcan.” T’Pring almost sing-songs, but she is a Vulcan and they do not sing-song. She does allow the smallest inflection of emotion, however, because she now has the opportunity to speak to someone who may actually listen to her.

The Ambassador looks at her, then at Spock, then back at her. “You may explain the nature of such behaviours during the morning meal. Be downstairs in half an hour. Spock will provide anything you may need.” The Ambassador nods once, as if to show respect, but T’Pring is not an adult, the Ambassador does not need to _bow_ , then turns and leaves, shutting the door behind.

There is silence.

“I take it that that went well.” T’Pring says.

“Indeed. He was well within his right to remove you from my home, and I would have been powerless to stop him. He could have forced the dissolving of the bond. He could have banned your presence in our home. He could have moved us to another city or planet.” Spock begins listing terrible outcomes, each falling into the space between them faster and faster, the panic rising in his throat also rising through the bond and into T’Pring’s own shock.

“And yet, he did not.” T’Pring turns to look at him. “He did not.” She pauses, thinking. “Perhaps, after all this, the behaviour of our peers will improve. The Ambassador is well respected.”

“My father’s position has not stopped them before.” Spock says, scathing.

T’Pring thinks. 

“Has your father ever emulated your mother’s actions regarding your educational conditions?”

“No. Why?” 

T’Pring thinks of the singular time she witnessed Amanda Grayson cross the threshold of the learning centre, deep blue robes swirling as she walked like an ancient queen, and the sharp tones that came from the educators’ offices. T’Pring has never seen a fearful Vulcan, but the look on the educator’s face that day was close.

“Perhaps he should. Just the once.”

Spock crinkles his nose. “My mother’s decisions are often derived from emotion.”

“And yet, I know of those who fear her.”

“It is logical to fear that which is unknown.”

“It is logical to fear that which is worth fearing. Your mother is worth fearing.” 

Holos of said mother are neatly placed on Spock’s bookshelf, now easily identifiable with light from the morning sun. There are books, printed on paper, stories of Human fancy that she remembers from her Human Studies class; mythologies from other parts of the galaxy. There are books on astrophysics and Doctor Grayson’s own theses, thick texts about the language structure of Xahean, which requires a bone structure most mammalian species do not inherit, the positives and negatives of the universal translator, the revitalisation of the fantasy novel genre after the acceptance of Federation mythologies into the canon, the same mythologies that sit on the shelf. There is a Vulcan lyre, meticulously maintained, though the strings will need replacing sometime within the next few hours of play. There are little trinkets from places the Ambassador’s work has clearly taken the family; Betazed and Terra and Babel, and further trinkets from places T'Pring is certain the Ambassador could not have visited, because that _is_ a Romulan ceremonial dagger, still in its sheath, placed at just the right height that Spock could grab it without being seen.

The Ambassador has some unusual opinions about protection.

Beside the knife sits a long, heavily embroidered piece of fabric. The House of Surak’s deep green sash, folded in a style befitting his house, the gold curves of ornamental Vuhlkansu catching in the light. It is likely that the thread itself contains gold filament. She will bear this crest, one day, the weight of it hung over her shoulders as she stands among a legacy spanning back to the awakening of Vulcan. She reaches out, and brushes the curves. They are cold beneath her fingertips, rough in a way that confirms her original hypothesis, and she traces the middle words of a verse she realises she does not know. Though the words are in Vulcan, they are not Vulcan in origin, and the words puzzle her. This is, then, a sash only in the colours of the house of Surak, and not its symbol.

“My father commissioned it.” Spock says, breaking the silence. “It is an old Terran blessing. They had difficulties with my gestation and birth, and my father- my father turned to superstition and blind faith. That sash is the one sign that I know he bears emotion.” _Painanguishwhydidtheyfightiamnotworthit_ flashes rapidly through T’Pring’s head.

“It must run deep if he chooses to immortalise it. He must care.”

Spock is silent, and T’Pring’s eyes move to the actual sash of the House of Surak, the familiar ceremonial Vuhlkansu script calming her.

She goes to speak again, and realises that her mouth is tacky with sleep, and crinkles her nose. “I should make myself presentable for the morning meal.”

“You are already presentable, considering you rode a sehlat here.” 

She glares at him. His mouth twitches with amusement. _Well, it is better than self-loathing_. “Though, there is one minor adjustment to be made.” He stands and walks over to her, hand reaching out. “Your hair is a mess.” His fingers flick a strand of hair that had looped in on itself, and it settles into place. “I am not a magician. I cannot fix the unfixable without proper supplies.” He looks at her in wonder, in shock, in awe, as if he expects her to vanish underneath his fingertips.

“No, you are Spock.” She replies, and his mouth flickers into a smile, a proper smile, not the Vulcan ones which are composed of a short tick of the mouth, but a proper Human smile, one that makes his eyes shine and his cheeks lift and it makes T’Pring happy to see him like this.

Yes, she will confess to being happy. It is a nice emotion. And it is nice that it has come from him. He is perhaps one of the few peers she does not mind spending time with - his mind makes sense in the same way that the computers and machines she studies do. Some would argue that it is the fledgling bond between them, but she would reason that it is simply because he has bothered to know her. Not even her parents have taken the steps to do so.

His own hair is mostly in place, though beginning to curl at the edges, where it grows beyond the traditional Vulcan style. Perhaps, in time, if he were to grow it into the longer styles favoured by those who study Surak’s teachings with deep intensity, it would curl completely, or perhaps fall in waves above his ear. It reminds her of Doctor Grayson’s own hair, the few strands that had not been neatly maintained in the series of braids she wore had fallen in loose ringlets around her face, vastly different to the usually straight hair of Vulcans in Shi’Kahr.

“My parents will be waiting.” He says, looking at the door, though it has not been the stated half hour, ten minutes at most. 

“Would you like to go down to the morning meal now?”

He sighs, a soft exhale that pulls his shoulders taut. “Hesitating only prolongs the inevitable.”

“At least my rebellion will distract them from the marks on your face.” She says, pointing to where the embroidery on Spock’s sleeve has imprinted itself in his cheek. He rubs at it, knowing that it will do nothing, and she almost grins as she opens the door. Almost. Though she is happy she is not one to smile without extreme emotion. Spock’s room is on the second floor, and the hallway she expects is not a hallway, but an open balcony, a glass railing allowing the light from the giant windows to catch on the deep red and gold interior. T’Pring can see the beginnings of a seating area, curved lounges in dark blue surrounding an usually shaped table. There are deep green houseplants in large, white pots against the walls, as well as a small bookshelf containing physical books and a few holos, though T’Pring cannot make out the subjects. Spock stands beside her, having closed the door behind him. “The washroom is this way. I suspect you would appreciate a hairbrush.” He says, and she quirks one meticulously maintained eyebrow at him. He turns on his heel and walks down the balcony, hands tucked firmly behind him, fingers curling into the hem of the sleeves. She can hear the faint sound of conversation, the soft ebb and flow of Doctor Grayson’s voice, the Ambassador’s staccato and even tone, plates and glasses being arranged.

Spock pushes at a door, and it opens into a blue and light grey bathroom, any space that does not contain the expected furnishings layered with greenery. This is clearly a space meant for family, not confined by the Vulcan social constructs that would claim such greenery illogical. It is, however, nice to see thick verdant green under the window, the fronds of palms that would not survive anywhere else the size of T’Pring’s hands.

Spock steps up to the sink - one with both sonic and water options, she notices -, rising up on the tips of his toes to peer at his own visage in the mirror above it. His nose crinkles, and he rubs at his face again. It is a very human action. 

It is a very endearing action.

She moves to stand beside him, and frowns. The mess is worse than she thought. The loose braids she wore were now clearly messy and obviously slept in. She would redo them, but she has not yet mastered the art of doing hair, a fact her mother constantly mentions.

Spock must sense her trepidation - or is it discomfort, curling within the centre of her gut like a badly-prepared meal - and looks at her, then at her hair. “My mother showed me how to complete a simple braid. Would you like me to help you?” He asks.

Nobody has ever asked if T’Pring wanted help. Ever. Her parents have been of the opinion that she must master things without aid. It is nice, to know there is someone to lean on. She nods, and he steps behind her. There are a few seconds where he does nothing, just stands behind her head. “Why are you waiting?”

“I do not wish to harm you. I will proceed only once you ask me to.”

It is unnerving to have her boundaries respected. The second that thought crosses her mind, T’Pring squashes it. She does not need to be second-guessing the opinions of her parents so greatly at such a time, even if they do believe that privacy is not important for the healthy development of a child. Perhaps it is Doctor Grayson’s human heritage that prompts Spock to have such an awareness of a person’s comfort levels. “You may begin.”

He starts by undoing the two pins at the base of her skull, and the two braids fall swiftly along her shoulders. They are even worse when unpinned, whole sections of the braids twisted out of place and looping in on themselves, twisting as Spock undoes the braids with practised movements. Her hair falls around her shoulders in tangles, and Spock pulls out a brush from a drawer, pulling it through her hair in long strokes. They stand there, silent, Spock’s mental counting of the strokes ticking over into T’Pring’s own mind, the soft parting of her hair beneath his fingers filling the space between now and the moment that T’Pring must face his parents. It is _nice_ , she thinks, to be cared for like this, each strand treated with reverence as he moves it, each run of the brush gentle against her scalp. Her parents never take their time with the task, utilitarian in their approach to dress; the act of styling hair taking barely over a minute. 

But Spock? He takes his time, passing the brush until he is satisfied with its sleekness. He artfully separates her hair in half, braiding one half close to her skull, and tying it off when there is barely any loose hair left, the tie coming to rest against her back when he lets go. He repeats the motion, then twists the ends into a rough knot which sits at the base of her skull. The pins are reinserted to stabilise it, and he begins final adjustments on the braids, shifting curves to sit better against the back of her neck.

“You are good at this.”

“My mother thought it a good skill to teach. It is a way to care for others, though I am out of practise.” His yearning for said practise is unsaid, but tangible, the weight of the bun now almost unbearable when Spock lets go.

“If you wish to practise more often, I am amenable.” Longing is replaced by shock - when will he _learn_ that T’Pring finds his company acceptable - and awe, and an almost overwhelming joy.

“Thank you.” He says, putting the brush back in its place. “My parents are waiting.” Nerves begin to bounce through the bond again.

“T’Ara is still outside your window, if you would prefer.” She suggests, and he smiles. A proper smile, lighting up his very Human eyes and reaching the points of his very Vulcan ears. It is endearing.

She would like to see it more often.

“I do not think a sehlat is the stealthiest way to avoid my parents.” He says, walking towards the door. “And, if we were to leave, my father has the connections to organise a city-wide search in a matter of moments. We should not waste precious resources simply to delay the inevitable.” He reaches for the handle and holds it for her as she walks out. He follows, closing the door behind him.

“Lead the way.”

He does, stepping around her to head back the way they came. They pass his room and go down the staircase, towards the sound of something frying and light conversation, then laughter from Doctor Grayson. The bond warms at the noise, Spock clearly enjoying the sound of his mother having fun. There are portraits of non-Vulcans along the walls of the staircase;some with the same waves Spock has, others with dark skin and head coverings T’Pring cannot name, a blonde Human woman with a lopsided grin, two Andorians in flowy dresses, a Barzan woman with a young Doctor Grayson on her back. It explains much about Doctor Grayson and her decision to raise her son on Vulcan, but also leads to more questions. Why would Doctor Grayson walk away from such a diverse community? Would Spock not have benefitted from the relationships she had already established?

“Those are my aunts and uncles. My mother does not have any siblings, and has instead decided to fill the space with a combination of cousins and unrelated individuals she holds close to her.” Spock elaborates, staring at the image of his mother, laughing, as she is carried. “They do not visit often as most are in Starfleet.” And millions of light years away, she finishes mentally.

“Do you miss them?” She asks instead.

“Yes.” 

There is grief and loss, so she does not push for names to the faces, and instead descends further down the staircase. “My parents are this way.” He continues down the staircase ahead of her, past more images of more people, then down a small hallway leading into another bright space. There is a white table, long enough to seat twelve, dividing the room; the side T’Pring and Spock enter from contains the kitchen, the long table is in the middle, followed by a sitting area that faces out to a small greenhouse - the sight makes T’Pring long for the safety of Spock’s mind - and the further spaces outside.

The table is set, four places laid out, alongside two pots of steaming tea - one clearly the Vulcan choice, another foreign, tangy and different - and a few small dishes, each lightly steaming and fragrant.

The Ambassador is already seated, sipping some steaming tea, and looking fondly at his wife, who is gesturing aggressively, the apple in her hand waving about as she paces. “And to think, they’re trying to convince me- _me!_ \- that I misheard them when they said ‘tool’, but I know that tongue like the ba– Spock, T’Pring, good morning.” Doctor Grayson and the Ambassador turn to look at them as they enter. There are a thousand things to notice in the room; the tapestries, the ornate portrait, T’Ara sleeping outside by the window, but one thing stands out immediately.

Doctor Grayson also has her hair in two braids and a bun, the same way Spock has done for her.

The Ambassador stands, nodding respectfully. “Come, sit. We will eat, and then we will discuss the events of yesterday and this morning.”

T’Pring feels a very distinct surge of panic that is not her own. She does, however, agree with the sentiment. Spock steps towards the table, sitting to the left of his father, while Doctor Grayson sits at the Ambassador’s right hand. T’Pring takes the final place beside Spock. The silence is heavy, each second longer than the last. It is almost stifling, and while T’Pring is used to silent meals she is begins to chafe at the need to speak, to say something, why will nobody sa—  
“Spock, did you manage to complete your extra studies last night?” Doctor Grayson asks, as she and the Ambassador serve the numerous dishes on the table, Doctor Grayson starts with a dish that looks similar to a traditional breakfast of grains stewed in milk, but smells more fragrant than the traditional recipe. The Ambassador begins by serving some stewed fruit with practised motions. He has all of the servings offered in the time it takes for Doctor Grayson to serve her first. 

“Not in its entirety. I had a guest.” Spock responds. She smiles, andT’Pring has the shocking realisation that Spock’s smile is also the smile of his mother, as she spoons some grain on his plate. 

“Thank you, mother.” 

The spoon goes back to the bowl, and then to T’Pring’s own plate.

“My thanks, Doctor Grayson.”

“Amanda is fine, T’Pring.” She says, before a string of unfamiliar words follow, and T’Pring blinks twice when she realises that the language she now speaks is not Vulcan, but Klingon. Spock responds in kind, and the doctor nods, clearly pleased with the response. Her confusion must be obvious, because the Ambassador speaks.

“My apologies, T’Pring, it is tradition for my wife to further Spock’s linguistic studies over the morning meal. I have become accustomed to conversation in languages I am unfamiliar with, however we can divert from tradition for one meal.” He looks at his wife, who smiles softly, placing the last scoop of grains onto her own plate.

“I do not mind.” T’Pring replies. “I theorised that the subject of Spock’s study last night was at the recommendation of Doctor Grayson.”

Spock turns to look at her. “I did not inform you of the contents of my study.”

“I heard you.” She explains, and the Ambassador’s head tilts slightly.

“Clarify. You _heard_ Spock studying?”

“Yes.” Her brows furrow. “Was I not supposed to?”

Doctor Grayson and the Ambassador share a look. 

“Only if Spock was projecting his thoughts, and as I did not hear him, it is clear that he was not.”

Something terrible begins to swell at the back of T’Pring’s head, and she shifts, sitting straighter in her seat. “I have found that the bond between Spock and myself is unusually strong. I am unsure as to why.”

“Strong? Well, that can’t be a bad thing.” Doctor Grayson says, lowering the serving spoon as the Ambassador distributes small pastries to each plate. The small pastries are rectangular and fragrant, and T’Pring’s eyes follow the uneven curves of the flaky pastry. They even appear made from scratch, intentionally replicated unevenness obvious to even the Human eye. T’Pring is out of her depth. Her parents do not pretend that their replicated meals are made from scratch, as it appears Spock’s parents do. 

“Telepathic abilities have always been strong in the house of Surak. Perhaps the nature of the Human mind has allowed for development in ways a purely Vulcan mind cannot achieve.” The Ambassador hypothesises, placing one final pastry on his wife’s plate. “Tea, Ashayam?”

This certainly _cannot_ be the normal functioning of this family unit, could it? T’Pring has been told by her parents that prolonged affections, such as those she is witnessing, are unsustainable. If that is the case, why would the Ambassador, an individual meant to represent the logic of Vulcan, indulge in illogical pleasantries?

She frowns at her breakfast. The breakfast offers no answer.

“T’Pring, would you prefer a traditional Vulcan brew, or would you like to try a Terran blend?” Spock asks, and T’Pring blinks.

“The traditional blend, please.” 

Spock nods, and takes the pot from his father - who has already served his wife - and pours her a small cup. He places the still steaming pot down, standing so as to place it in its prior spot, and picks up the smaller, second pot, from which he pours himself a cup. 

“Thank you.” She says, and he nods, delight sparking through the bond.

“You are welcome.” He places the pot back down on the table, and sits.

Content, she refocuses on her breakfast.

“You honour us with your presence at our table, T’Pring.” The Ambassador says, and it is a testament to her control that she does not squeak in shock at the formal address.

“I am honoured.” She replies, eyes focused on the slight twitch of one corner of the Ambassador’s mouth. 

He nods, then picks up his cutlery. Both Doctor Grayson and Spock do the same, so she does as well, using the fork to collect some of the replicated grains and eat the mouthful.

Her eyes widen. This is not a replicated dish.

“My mother often makes meals from scratch. It allows her to utilise Terran methods of meal preparation.” Spock says, answering the question that had barely begun to form.

“It’s my way of remaining close to my family, and lessens the emotional impact of the physical distance between us.” Doctor Grayson continues.

“It is logical to miss that which is familiar, wife.” The Ambassador holds out two fingers, and T’Pring looks away just before Doctor Grayson responds in kind.

Spock looks at her, and she meets his eyes. She tries to send the thought _Is this normal?_ through the bond, but, judging by the lack of response, it does not go through.

“We should continue the meal. My father is not one for distraction.” Spock says, aloud, and T’Pring nods, continuing the morning meal in silence. Around her there is easy discussion of topics that, while important, could be discussed at other times. It is only when T’Pring intentionally joins the conversation that she realises that was the intent the entire time. With their words and actions, the Ambassador and Doctor Grayson have created an atmosphere of unwavering peace. T’Pring has slowly relaxed in the pleasant atmosphere, and comes to the realisation that here, at their table, she feels safe. She _is_ safe.

Eventually, all the foods are eaten - T’Pring enjoyed the pastries the most, and mentally beams when Doctor Grayson smiles in response to her compliments. The plates are put away, leaving only the tea, the cups, and a PADD, newly acquired for the Ambassador’s use. The four of them resettle around the table in the same seats as before. 

The fresh anxiety spiking in T’Pring’s mind is both her own and Spock’s, and she takes three slow, measured breaths before looking at the Ambassador.

“Are you ready to discuss the events of yesterday?” He asks, voice and eyes losing their gentleness to be replaced with steel as he takes on the role of something more powerful and potent. T’Pring is truly in the Ambassador’s presence now.

“Yes, I am.”

He nods. “Then we shall begin. What events transpired yesterday, and what were the actions you took that demonstrated your quality as ‘an acceptable bondmate, but a sub-par Vulcan’, a distinction that you yourself provided?”

She should lie. The urge to is almost overpowering, but what good would come from lying? Lying would only give Spock’s tormentors the freedom to continue their distasteful behaviour, and she would never forgive herself if her inactions led to further torment. She takes a deep breath.

“Yesterday, during the midday meal at the place of learning, a number of other students began to harass Spock, torment which stemmed from his Human heritage.” She is about to continue, but the Ambassador holds up a hand.

“This was yesterday?”

“Yes.”

He looks to his wife, who has slowly gone red in the face, her expression twists as she frowns deeper and deeper. “You know they refuse to tell me anything after the last time I intervened.” Her voice is sharp and her tone sharper, and T’Pring would flinch if she was under the impression that the anger was directed at her. Doctor Grayson blinks, then looks at Spock. “You came home hurt yesterday.” Spock looks down. 

“ _Spock._ ”

“I was speaking the truth when I said that I fell.”

T’Pring looks at him, confused. “Your fall was due to you being pushed, most likely more than once. Did you not provide the details of the incident to your parents?”

There is silence at the table, and T’Pring remembers in shocking clarity what Spock had said after the incident.

_If I inform my parents, I am negatively impacting the emotional wellbeing of my mother. If she is impacted, then my father is impacted._

Oh no.

A number of things happen at once. Doctor Grayson stands abruptly and leaves the room, a string of what is clearly curses falling from her lips. The Ambassador’s hands clench, and the PADD in his hands creaks with the strength of his hands. Spock, beside her, looks down, and T’Pring feels such a mix of emotions - anger, fear, sadness, worry, hatred for the self - that she finds it difficult to continue. She does not push, and sits in silence.

Doctor Grayson returns, face cold and impassive, and sits back down. “Spock was pushed, and you saw it happen?” Her voice is like metal, impersonal and strong, and T’Pring clings to the clear show of emotional control and continues.

“No, I felt his emotions through the bond and came to his aid.” Spock flinches, ever so slightly, at mention of the bond, and T’Pring attempts to send an apology through it into his mind. She does not know if he receives it, because there is no response.

“I would assume that you did so logically, but I distinctly remember you labelling yourself a ‘sub-par Vulcan.’ I take it, then, logic was not utilised to come to his aid?” The Ambassador prompts. 

T’Pring nods.

“I goaded the individuals into recklessness. One of the tormentors charged us with intent to cause more violence, I stepped out of the way, and he fell into one of the learning spaces, breaking his arm.” Her voice evens out as she continues, buffered by the slow well of pride that sits at the base of her skull; the overwhelming negative emotions Spock is feeling now replaced by the sweet satisfaction of remembering Varek plummeting into the learning space.

It is what he deserved.

“I have no regrets for what I did, but the elders of the educational centre believe that I should. My parents also maintain that sentiment, the sentiment that a good Vulcan would not rely on petty insults to solve debates. However, calling the incident a debate is simplistic. It was the most recent of a series of antagonistic behaviours that stem from a severe dislike that goes against the basic Vulcan social testaments. There is no logic in their actions and behaviour, so logic cannot be accurately applied when dealing with them. I… I wished for the repercussions of my words to serve as a warning, that Spock is now bonded, and that his betrothed will be wherever it is that Spock will be.” She stops, aware that she is possibly revealing too much, and exhales, the tension lifting off of her shoulders.

“That you will be wherever it is that Spock will be.” The Ambassador quotes. “And here I was concerned that his betrothed would find his human qualities distasteful.”

“Perhaps an acceptance of human behaviour can be learned. T’Pring did just state that her parents hold the same sentiments as the educators.” Doctor Grayson replies, the metal in her voice warming to something akin to the tea in T’Pring’s hands.

“About her actions, but not about Spock in particular.”

“They share the sentiments about Spock, too.” She confesses. They look at her - all three of them - and she wiggles her nose, a nervous habit, her mother would chide her for falling into such childish ways. “I disagree with those sentiments. Greatly.”

Spock somehow looks at her harder, as if using the bond between them to stare deep into her katra. “Clarify.”

She looks directly at him, shifting her body so she faces him. “You are mine. It has been agreed by not only our parents, but by representatives of both our houses. Our bond is clearly strong enough to cover small distances and great emotion, and I have come to the realisation that I-” She could not say the word ‘enjoy’, though she longed to speak it. “- appreciate your mind.”

“Appreciate is a strong word.” Spock says, tone and eyebrows showing his shock, bond resonating with what she was not saying.

“That is why I am using it.” She stares at him, attempting to do what he has been doing the entire time, hoping that he is able to understand that she is _proud_ of him, and of their bond. He blinks twice. He feels it. “That is why I came to see you. I could not confirm your state of wellbeing through the bond, and I do not want to lose that which I deem important.”

“T’Pring, why did you not use a comm to contact Spock?” Doctor Grayson asks.

“My parents removed all unnecessary items from my possession, including a comm, as punishment for my actions.”

“Clarify, what did they deem unnecessary items?” The look the Ambassador shares with his wife is heavy with something T’Pring is unable to name.

“Any item that was not a standard piece of clothing or a strictly educational material. I had predicted that they would take T’Ara from me, as well, though that was not the case.” Something passes across Doctor Grayson’s face, and T’Pring watches in surprise as Doctor Grayson’s own nose twitches. “It, however, may be now.”

“We can take care of that.” Doctor Grayson says in a tone that asks for no argument, and T’Pring does not attempt to provide one.

“This is more complex than I anticipated.” The Ambassador says, and Doctor Grayson nods. “Perhaps I should inform my mother of the situation.”

Doctor Grayson’s lips twitch. “That is a logical decision, husband.”

T’Pring frowns, eyebrows crinkling. “Your mother, Ambassador?”

“Yes, my mother, T’Pau.”

 _Oh_ . T’Pring has a number of very strong emotions about the ancient and terrifying Vulcan matriarch. _They deserve her presence_ , she thinks. “Understood.”

The Ambassador’s mouth twitches with amusement. “Your parents will be arriving shortly to collect you. You are in luck that today is a day of rest, and not study, or you would have missed your classes.”

T’Pring bows her head. “I was not intending to fall asleep. I am sorry for the intrusion.”

The Ambassador raises a hand. “No apology is required.” He lowers his hand. “Next time, T’Pring, you are welcome to use the front door. The windows can only handle so much.”

She looks down in an attempt to hide her own twitch of the mouth, knowing the words are clearly meant in jest. “Of course, Ambassador.”

He continues. “If you wish to be wherever it is that Spock will be, my wife and I must discuss with your parents the subject of your education.”

“My education?”

“The traditional educational structures of Vulcan are designed to raise scientists and engineers. As my wife and I are diplomats, we strive to supplement his traditional education with the skills we have found most beneficial in our own careers, so that he will be able to call upon them with the same level of skill as my wife or myself in his own future.” He looks at his wife, who speaks in his stead.

“It would concern the learning of languages. In the same way that Spock has learnt Klingon and Romulan, we would teach you, in turn, some Federation and non-Federation languages. You would also learn some of the arts, mainly traditional dances and an instrument. Do you find this acceptable?” 

T’Pring thinks of the scarf, of the ceremonial dagger, of the lyre. She has never left Vulcan, never considered that her work - or her life - would take her away from the red sands she has grown accustomed to seeing. Is there truly a place in the vastness of space for a Vulcan such as she? If she were to receive the correct training, such as the one she would receive from a well-respected Ambassador like Ambassador Sarek, then, perhaps, she would be able to see what else is out there. She would be able to see what else is out there with somebody by her side. She nods.

“Good. Once we organise a schedule with your parents, you and Spock will learn alongside each other. We can discuss language preferences at a later date, if you so wish.”

Her eyebrows crinkle. “May we discuss them now? It may be more beneficial to have a predetermined list of languages I wish to undertake.” She suggests, and Doctor Grayson smiles. It is not the full Human smile, but it makes T’Pring warm regardless. 

“Of course. Spock speaks Standard, both Modern and High Golic, and is currently learning Klingon and Romulan. He also speaks Hebrew and Cantonese, which are Terran languages. If you would like, I am happy to teach you some of those, as well. Undertaking multiple Terran languages might not immediately seem as logical as undertaking something from another planet, but the ability to communicate more effectively with a group of individuals is in direct correlation to whether or not you speak a common language, and how well you are able to do so.”

The Ambassador speaks up. “It is also helpful for pleasing the grandmothers of visiting dignitaries and scholars.” He and Doctor Grayson share a look that is heavy with a shared experience. T’Pring looks at Spock for clarification, but he simply shakes his head.

“Amongst other things.” Doctor Grayson responds, voice soft, raising two fingers. The Ambassador meets the touch, and T’Pring sharply looks away from the ozh'esta, her unease at the openness of the touch curling in her gut. Her parents are not like this, but _why_ are they not like this?

Why do they refuse to be so kind?

The sound of a buzzer rings through the room, and the Ambassador stands. “That is likely to be your parents.” 

A sense of foreboding almost overwhelms T’Pring. “I will collect T’Ara–” Her discomfort - no, not discomfort, _fear_ \- must show on her face, because Doctor Grayson speaks.

“If you like, she may stay. We have ample room for a sehlat, and I am sure she would appreciate the change of scenery.” Doctor Grayson says, standing in turn. “ _I_ would appreciate the company.” It is an out, an obvious out, a way for T’Pring to pretend that she is giving into Doctor Grayson’s human wishes to have an animal companion, and not a deflection from the fact that T’Pring’s parents are clearly not beyond taking things which are precious. T’Pring and Spock also stand, and follow his parents towards the front door.

“Then you may have her.” T’Pring replies, and Doctor Grayson steps closer, now a forearm’s length away from T’Pring. The urge to reach out and feel her hedge maze of a mind is almost overpowering, and T’Pring quells the urge by digging her fingernails into her palm. The pain is something new, something different to focus on, and the urge drowns under her new focus on the four crescent lines in her palm.

The door opens, and in the second before Spock moves in front of her T’Pring can make out her parents, the both of them dressed in deep brown robes. Though they present an aura of calm, T’Pring knows that they contain a raging fury unlike any other.

She steels herself.

“Senek. T’Amar. I take it your journey was well.” The Ambassador greets them with a tone that T’Pring now understands is laden with false civility. Her parents do not notice, instead they nod and step inside. The door closes behind them.

“Our apologies for the intrusion into your home.” Her mother, T’Amar, says. Her parents seem out of place within the home, so devoted to the stringent rulings of logic that even their black robes are a scar within the wooden frame and large windows and surrounding greenery. Her father makes eye contact with T’Pring, and T’Pring is inwardly proud of the fact that she does not flinch.

“Apologies are not necessary. T’Pring is always welcome, as the betrothed of our son it is imperative that she forge relationships with the entire family unit.” Doctor Grayson adds, and T’Pring knows her mother well enough to understand that the responding look is one of distaste. The loud echo of Spock’s distrust at the sight of the twisting of her mother’s nose comforts T’Pring. Her mother’s lack of empathy is not as well hidden as she thinks.

“On that topic, we would like to discuss including T’Pring in a specialised education outside of standard learning, to aid in a more well-balanced skillset. It would consist of the study of foreign languages and the associated arts.” The Ambassador explains, and T’Pring can see the turmoil of emotion broadcast in the slant of her father’s brow. “To best match Spock’s own skills, skills that would be utilised by the both of them within diplomatic situations.”

“Ambassador, why do you believe that our children will become diplomats?” Senek asks, voice venomous.

“It has been the way of the house of Surak for generations, Senek, for my kin to reach out to others, regardless of initial contact. My grandfather’s mission to Terra led to the Federation that we are a part of today, and I will do everything of my ability to prepare my son for the day that he, too, reaches out to new cultures for the betterment of us all. As your daughter has been bound to him in the old ways, she, too, must undertake such education. It would be ill of me to allow T’Pring to bear the name of our house but not benefit from its teachings.”

T’Pring, yet again, almost drowns in the overwhelming realisation that she is wanted. The Ambassador is there, at the door, standing between her parents and herself, defending her right to learn things beyond the expected syllabus, to learn for the sake of learning, to study for the purpose of bettering the universe. The weight of what he implies, that her actions will be on par with the founding of the _Federation itself_ , would be enough to shatter what remains of her control, but the bond thrums like lute strings as the four adults continue their conversation. Before, it had been unclear emotion, like smelling incense from the next room, but now she could hear him.

_That you will be wherever it is that I will be, remember?_

_Yes._ She hesitates. _If you find that amenable._

He thinks about her, about her mind, about how it felt to curl underneath a beam and feel cool metal. _I find it amenable. We shall change the world._

_I believe your father specified the Federation._

_Indeed. But we will do it together._ Together. What a large word. The oath that T’Pring’s hypothetical journey into the stars would not be undertaken alone, that she would be part of a unit, a part of a whole, all confined within the word ‘together’.

_Together?_

_Together._


End file.
